The More Debris There Is The More

A Word Aptly Uttered Or Written Cannot Be Cut Away By An Axe.

Like All Of Us Sinners, General Betrishchev Was Endowed With Many Virtues And Many Defects. Both The One And The Other Were Scattered Through Him In A Sort Of Picturesque Disorder. Self-sacrifice, Magnanimity In Decisive Moments, Courage, Intelligence--and With All That, A Generous Mixture Of Self-love, Ambition, Vanity, Petty Personal Ticklishness, And A Good Many Of Those Things Which A Man Simply Cannot Do Without.

He Who Has Talent In Him Must Be Purer In Soul Than Anyone Else. Another Will Be Forgiven Much, But To Him It Will Not Be Forgiven. A Man Who Leaves The House In Bright, Festive Clothes Needs Only One Drop Of Mud Splashed From Under A Wheel, And People All Surround Him, Point Their Fingers At Him, And Talk About His Slovenliness, While The Same People Ignore Many Spots On Other Passers-by Who Are Wearing Everyday Clothes. For On Everyday Clothes The Spots Do Not Show.

Go Along, Go Along Quickly, And Set All You Have On The Table For Us. We Don't Want Doughnuts, Honey Buns, Poppy Cakes, And Other Dainties; Bring Us A Whole Sheep, Serve A Goat And Forty-year Old Mead! And Plenty Of Vodka, Not Vodka With All Sorts Of Fancies, Not With Raisins And Flavorings, But Pure Foaming Vodka, That Hisses And Bubbles Like Mad.

We Have The Marvelous Gift Of Making Everything Insignificant.